The Man Behind the Cop by Janice Kay Johnson

Author:Janice Kay Johnson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2008-08-14T16:00:00+00:00

ON FRIDAY Karin realized that Lenora’s coma was becoming noticeably lighter; her hands or legs jerked more, her eyelids fluttered frequently and occasionally she moaned or murmured. A couple of days ago, Karin was still talking as much to herself as to the unresponsive woman in the bed. She would unwind from her day by telling stories from her childhood or recounting snippets she’d read in the newspaper. Now…now she hung on every twitch, felt her anxiety ratchet at every mumble. Were Lenora’s eyes about to open? Would she be in there? Or only some damaged semblance of herself?

The possibilities covered a wide spectrum. She might never regain consciousness at all. She might begin to have seizures and worsen. She might open her eyes but be severely brain damaged. The likelihood was that she’d have suffered at least some brain damage.

Or she might open her eyes, look around with panic and disorientation and then remember.

Lenora was both praying for and dreading the last possibility.

She gave up at last and went home to her empty house. She never used to think of her house that way. She’d always been glad to be home, comforted by the surroundings she’d created, anticipating the hour she meant to spend in her garden the next morning. Now the emptiness was the first thing that hit her when she walked in the front door. How had that happened?

She knew, but didn’t want to think about it.

Her voice-mail box was as empty as the house. She felt a little lurch of disappointment. Hadn’t Bruce said he’d call at the end of the day “just because he’d want to”? Had he called and not bothered to leave a message? Or had he been busy and not even thought about her this evening?

Which would she prefer to be the truth?

Karin kept listening for the phone even as she brushed her teeth and got ready for bed, but it never rang. She was dismayed to realize how much she wanted to hear his voice.

He finally did call at lunchtime the next day, other voices audible in the background. She was working her one Saturday a month. “Dinner tonight?”

“Sure.” She hesitated, then said, “Why don’t I cook.”

Moment of silence. “Are you sure you want to after a long day?”

“I made a vegetarian chili last weekend and froze it. I’ll warm it up, make a salad, some corn bread…”

“Sold.”

They agreed on a time, exchanged a few “no news” remarks and said goodbye. Karin set down the phone, aware of her uneven heartbeat and the flush that seemed to be spreading from her chest out. She knew the cause: it was the way his voice had deepened and become more resonant when she suggested they eat at her place. He thought the invitation meant more than a simple meal. And maybe, Karin admitted to herself, it did. She’d offered on impulse, but knew perfectly well that impulses had roots that plunged deep. She wouldn’t have invited him into her home again if she hadn’t wanted him here, with all that encompassed.

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